Moon Cake, No Discount [Ohms for Rowland S Howard]
By Kent MacCarter | 28 February 2013
Electrical is a chitchat bong your physics shout fare The Scenic Railway rollercoaster ¡¡2 tokens!! a chart barks that Libra’s knees up-ended you before, here-here thy Paddle Pop cur I once flamed my tongue on a fructose that whisked along namesakes of JASON. Kinder Egg it is the weathermen it is you, jape wire a gunshot spoon-fed from the nostrils of slow
cooking tradesmen King Gees fellating a menthol with a Christ-load of scrape who rectify our sewage of conversational Twisties bbq with broadband. Your hand pornographic and stinking of postcodes, gambols toward an infinitesimal pace an antelope lovelorn mindlessly excreting out nuggets and roving whole daikon of grin, an African necklace these dangles an oh. Oh tranquil cappuccino! Can Bruce Milne hang on this corner with you?
until the bridge of our feet swell and radio’s bunghole beads sweat as it fans out its clutch of pineapples forty-sixty-one ragged minutes in suit of your companionship? Spade, This is not what you think, ma’am. You see that fruitmonger down there in a windbreaker filling bantam slacks a-go-go chestnuts and hips? That proprietor clucking amongst dashboards of broccoli tyre treads of ripe kale figs dumbed by the custard of fables. He’s switched on Anjou, Mr Pear? You’re thinking about butter sticks in private places. I’m thinking about trespassing ceramic saucers with carp. And He’s haggling with Jupiter
about at what price one ought become suicidally beautiful in Siddhartha’s basement of October. Okay, so it’s your first mandarin hang time oh please those teeth try it on lawyer’s gear and laughed apart triangular line goed South. Grinning at dwarves where behind the via some unscrupulous throat a cold dead linoleum unfurls into Richmond. Pisces is dead. No compass nor any viable hand in which to bargain the custard apple down out its can or the fables from dog food caught in aspic that’s Man.